'That is largely immaterial. He hates his position here, and probably sees a Highland War as his best chance of being recalled south in triumph. It does not matter that he will face a rabble of poorly armed villagers. Who will know? He has his own historian. His army will be able to pillage and plunder the Highlands, and he will gather to himself a force to make him a power in the land. He may even be looking ahead and planning a civil war.

It doesn't matter what his motives are.'

'And how does this concern you, Asmidir? You are not of this land, and you are a friend to the Outland king.'

'I served him, but he has no friends. The King is a hard, ruthless man, much like the Baron. No, for me it is ... personal.' He smiled thinly. 'I came here because of a prophecy. It has not been fulfilled. Now I am lost.'

'What prophecy?'

He shrugged. 'It does not matter, does it? Even shamen can make mistakes, it seems. But I have grown to love this harsh, cold land with a fierceness that surprises me. It is as strong as my hatred for the Baron and all he represents.' He sighed and turned his head towards the fire. 'Why is it that wickedness always seems to triumph? Is it just that evil men freed from the constraints of basic morality are stronger than we?'

'It is probably just a question of timing,' she said and his head jerked round.

'Timing?'

'We have had two Kings of legend here, Gandarin and Ironhand. Both were good men, but they were also strong and fearless. Their enemies were scattered, and they ruled wisely and well. But this is the time of the Outland Kings, and not a good time for the peoples of the Highlands. Our time will come again. There will be a leader.'

'Now is the time,' he said. 'Where is the man? That was the prophecy that brought me here. A great leader will rise, wearing the crown of Alwen. But I have travelled far, Sigarni, and heard no word of such a man.'

"What will you do when you find him?'

He chuckled. 'My skill is strategy. I am a student of war. I will teach him how to fight the Outlanders.'

'Highland men do not need to be taught how to fight.'

He shook his head. 'There you are wrong, Sigarni. Your whole history has been built on manly courage: assembling a host to sweep down on an enemy host, man against man, claymore crashing against claymore. But war is about more than battles. It is about logistics, supplies, communication, discipline. An army has to feed, commanders need to gather reports and intelligence and pass these on to generals. Apart from this there are other considerations - morale, motivation, belief. The Outlanders, as you call them, understand these things.'

'You are altogether too tense,' she told him, leaning forward and running her hand softly down the inside of his thigh. 'Come back to bed, and I will repay you for the pleasure you gave me.'

'What of these other matters you had to attend to?' he asked.

For a moment only she thought of Bernt, then brushed him from her mind.

'Nothing of importance,' she assured him.

At noon the following day Ballistar found Bernt hanging from the branch of a spreading oak. The young cattle-herder was dressed in his best tunic and leggings, though they were soiled now, for he had defecated in death. The boy's eyes were wide open and bulging, and his tongue was protruding from his mouth.

When Ballistar arrived at the oak grove a crow was sitting on Bernt's shoulder, pecking at his right eye.

Below the corpse was a hawking glove, lovingly made and decorated with fine white beads. Urine from the corpse had dripped upon it, staining the hide.

37.

3.

THF OXEN FOUND pulling the wide wagon too difficult over the narrow deer trails to Gwalch's cabin, so Tovi was forced to take the long route, down into the valley and up over the rocky roads once used by the Lowland miners when there was still a plentiful supply of coal to be found on the open hillsides. The baker had set off just after dawn. He always enjoyed these quarterly trips into Citadel town. Gwalch was an amusing, if irritating, companion, but the money they shared from their partnership helped Tovi to maintain a pleasant and comfortable lifestyle. Gwalch made honey mead of the finest quality, and much of it was shipped to the south at vastly inflated prices.

One of the oxen slipped on the rocky shale. 'Ho there, Flaxen! Concentrate now, girl!' shouted Tovi. The wagon lurched on, the empty barrels in the back clunking against one another. Tovi took a deep sniff of the mountain air, blowing cool over High Druin. At the top of the rise he halted the oxen, allowing them a breather before attempting the last climb into the forest. Tovi applied the brake, then swung to stare out over the landscape. Many years before he had marched with the Loda men down this long road. They were singing, he recalled; they had met the Pallides warriors down there by the fork in the stream. Seven thousand men- even before the Farlain warriors had joined them.

All dead now. Well ... most of them anyway. Gwalch had been there. Fifty years old and straight as a long staff. The King had been mounted on a fine Southern horse, his bonnet adorned with a long eagle feather. Every inch a warrior he looked. But he had no real heart for it. Tovi hawked and spat, remembering the moment when the King fled the field leaving them to stand and die.

'Blood doesn't always run true,' he said softly. 'Heroes sire cowards, and cowards can sire kings.'

The air was crisp, the wind beginning to bite as Tovi wrapped his cloak across his chest. Didn't feel the wind back then, he thought. I did a week later, though, as I fled from the hunters, crawling through the bracken, wading the streams, hiding in shallow caves, starving and cold. God's bones, I felt it then!

High above him two eagles were flying the thermals, safe from the thoughts and arrows of men. Tovi released the brake and flicked the reins over the backs of the oxen. 'On now, my lads!' he called. 'It's an easier trip down for a while.'

Within the hour he arrived at Gwalch's cabin. The old man was sitting outside in the sunshine with a cup of mead in his hands. There were three horsemen close by, two grim-faced soldiers still sitting their saddles, and a cleric who was standing before the old man, arguing and gesticulating. The soldiers looked bored and cold, Tovi thought. The cleric was a man he recognized: Andolph the Census Taker, a small, fat individual with ginger hair and a face as white as Tovi's baking flour.

'It is not acceptable!' Tovi heard the cleric shout. 'And you could be in serious trouble. I don't know why I try to deal fairly with you Highlanders. You are a constant nuisance.'

Tovi halted the wagon and climbed down. 'Might I be of service, Census Taker?'

he enquired. Andolph stepped back from the grinning Gwalch. 'I take it you know this man?'

'Indeed I do. He is an old friend. What is the problem?'

Andolph sighed theatrically. 'As you know, the new law states that all men must have surnames that give them individuality. It is no longer enough to be Dirk, son of Dirk. Gods, man, there are hundreds of those. It is not difficult, surely, therefore to find a name that would suffice. But not this old fool. Oh no! I am trying to be reasonable, Baker, and he will not have it. Look at this!' The little man stepped forward and thrust a long sheet of paper towards Tovi. The baker took it, read what was written there, and laughed aloud.

'Well, it is a name,' he offered.

'I can't put this forward to the Roll Makers. Can't you see that? They will accuse the old man of making a mockery of the law. And I will be summoned to answer for it. I came here in good faith; I like a jest as well as the next man, and it did make me laugh when first I saw it. But it cannot be allowed to stand. You see that, don't you?'

Tovi nodded. There was no malice in the little man and, as far as was possible with an Outlander, Tovi quite liked him. It was a thankless

39.

task frying to take a census in the Highlands, especially since the object was to find new tax-payers. 'I'll speak to him,' he said, handing back the paper and walking over to where Gwalch sat. The old man was staring at one of the soldiers, and the man was growing uncomfortable.

'Come on, Gwalch,' said Tovi soothingly, 'it is time for the fun to stop. What name will you choose?'

'What's wrong with Hare-turd?' countered Gwalch.

Ill tell you what's wrong with it - it'll be carved on your tombstone. And you'll not be surprised when future generations fail to appreciate what a fine man you were.

Now stop this nonsense.'

Gwalch sniffed loudly, then drained his mead. 'You choose!' he told Tovi, staring at the soldier.

The Baker turned to the Census Taker. 'When young he was known as Fear-not.

Will that do?' Andolph nodded. From a leather bag he took a quill and a small bottle of ink. Resting the paper against his saddle, he made the change and called Gwalch to sign it. The old man gave a low curse, but he strolled to the horse and signed with his new name.

Andolph waved the paper in the air to dry the ink. 'My thanks to you, Tovi Baker, and goodbye to you... Gwalchmai Fear-not. I hope we will not meet again.'

'You and I won't,' said Gwalch, with a grin. 'And a word of advice, Andolph Census Taker: Trust not in dark-eyed women. Especially those who dance.'

Andolph blinked nervously, then climbed ponderously into his saddle. The three horsemen rode away, but the soldier Gwalch had been staring at swung round to look back. Gwalch waved at him. 'That is the man who will kill me,' said Gwalch, his smile fading. 'He and five others will come here. Do you think I could have changed the future if I had stabbed him today?'

Tovi shivered. 'Are we ready to load?' he asked.

'Aye. It's a good batch, but I'll not be needing the new barrels. This is our last trip, Tovi. Make the best of it.'

'What is the point of having the Gift if all it brings is gloom and doom?' stormed Tovi. 'And another thing, I do not believe that life is mapped out so simply. Men shape the future, and nothing is written in stone. You understand?'

'I don't argue with that, Tovi. Not at all. Sometimes I have dreamt

40.

of moments to come, and they have failed to arrive. Not often, mind, but sometimes. Like the young cattle-herder who loved Sigarni. Until yesterday I always saw him leaving the mountains to find employment in the Lowlands. Last night, though, I saw a different ending. And it has come to pass.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Bernt, the broad-shouldered young man who works for Grame the Smith...'

'I know him ... what about him?'

'Hanged himself from a tree. Late last night. Dreamt it sitting in my chair.'

'Hell's teeth! And it has happened? You are sure?'

The old man nodded. 'What I am trying to say is that futures can be changed sometimes. Not often. He shouldn't be dead, but something happened, one small thing, and suddenly life was over for Bernt.'

'What happened?'

'A woman broke a promise,' said Gwalch. 'Now let's have a swift drink before loading. It'll help keep the cold at bay.'

'No!' said Tovi. 'I want to be at the market before mid-morning.' Gwalch swore and moved away to the barrel store, and together the two men loaded twelve casks of honey mead alongside the empty barrels Tovi had brought with him.

'Why don't you let me leave the empties here?' asked the baker. 'You might change your mind - or the dream may change.'

'This dream won't change, my friend. There'll be no market for our mead come springtime. You know that; you've spoken to the Pallides man.'

'What did you tell him?' asked Tovi as the two men clambered to the driving seat of the wagon.

'Nothing he didn't already know," answered Gwalch. 'The Pallides Gifted Ones are quite correct.'

'And that was all?'

Gwalch shook his head. 'There is a leader coming. But I wouldn't tell him who, or when. It is not the right time. He impressed me, though. Sharp as a stone of flint, and hard too. He could have been a force one day. But he won't survive. You will, though, Tovi. You're going to be a man again.'

'I am already a man, Gwalchmai Hare-turd. And don't you forget it.'

In the pale moonlight the friendly willow took on a new identity, its long, wispy branches trailing the steel-coloured water like skeletal fingers. Even the sound of the falls was muted and strange, like the whispers of angry demons. The undergrowth rustled as the creatures of the night moved abroad on furtive paws, and Sigarni sat motionless by the waterside, watching the fragmented moon ripple on the surface.

She felt both numb and angry by turn; numbed by the death of the simple herder, and angry at the way the dwarf had treated her. Sigarni had spent three days in the mountains trapping fox and beaver, and had returned tired, wet and hungry to find Ballistar sitting by- her door. Her spirits had lifted instantly; the little man was always good company, and his cooking was a treat to be enjoyed. Greeting him with a smile, Sigarni had dumped her furs on the wooden board and then returned Abby to her bow perch. Returning to the house, she saw that Ballistar had moved away from the door. He was standing stock-still, staring at her, his face set and serious, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. Sigarni saw that he was carrying a hawking glove of pale tan, beautifully decorated with white and blue beads.

'A present for me?" she asked. He nodded and tossed her the glove. It was well made of turned hide brushed to a sheen, the stiches small and tight, the beads forming a series of blue swirls over a white letter . 'It's beautiful,' she said gaily.

'Why so glum? Did you think I wouldn't like it?' Slipping it on, she found it fitted perfectly.

'I never saw a crow peck out a man's eye before,' he said. 'It's curious how easily the orb comes away. Still, Bernt didn't mind. Even though he was in his best clothes. He didn't mind at all. Scarce noticed it.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Nothing of importance, Sigarni. So, how was Bernt when you saw him?'

'I didn't see him,' she snapped. 'I had other things to do. Now what is wrong with you? Are you drunk?'

The dwarf shook his head. 'No, I'm not drunk - but I will be in a while. I shall probably drink too much at the wake. I do that, you know. Funerals always upset me.' He pointed at the glove she wore. 'He made that for you. I suppose you could call it a love gift. He made it and he put on his best tunic. He wanted you to see him at his very best. But you didn't bother to go. So he waited until the dawn and then hanged himself from a tall tree in the oak grove. So, Sigarni, that's one fool you won't have to suffer again.'

She stood very still, then slowly peeled off the glove. 'It was on the ground below him,' said Ballistar, 'so you'll have to excuse the stains.'

Sigarni hurled the glove to the ground. 'Are you blaming me for his suicide?' she asked him.

'You, princess? No, not at all,' he told her, his voice rich with sarcasm. 'He just wanted to see you one last time. He asked me to tell you how important it was to him. And I did. But nothing is important to him any more.'

'Have you said all you want to say?' she asked, her voice soft but her eyes angry.

He did not reply, he merely turned and walked away.

Sigarni sat in the doorway for some time, trying to make some sense of the events. Ballistar obviously held her responsible for Bernt's death, but why? All she had done was rut with him for a while. Did that make her the guardian of his soul? I didn't ask him to fall in love with me, she thought. I didn't even work at it.

You could have gone to him as you promised, said the voice of her heart.